One Flew East, One Flew West
by xxCerezasxx
Summary: Dean says yes, and afterwards he isn't Dean. Slight Dean/Castiel.


**Disclaimer:Don't own**

**A/N:I wrote this months ago, I'd already posted it on my lj but figured what the hell, might as well post it around.**

**One Flew East, One Flew West  
**

"Well Dean?" Zachariah asks him, smug bastard smile twitching in the corners of his lips, curling them upwards with his angelic arrogance. "Did you change your mind or not? I don't have all night."

His mind is unyielding. He's a fucking wall of stubbornness, he will not give in, he will not consent, and he will not change his goddamn opinion for the world. In his gut he _knows_, knows he can save the world his own way, in his own, slow, carefully planned out way he can kill the devil. He can, and he could, and he would, and he wants to. He won't budge, but he will break, and he will crumble, and he'll do it all for Sam, for Sam and the world, for everything he isn't. His tongue fights him and the little fucked up voice in the back of mind that sounds like his father praises him while the blackness in his heart twists and burns, a heated coil of his own inner confliction and turmoil.

"Okay." He breathes, swallowing down the solid weight of his decision, the low throb of regret deep in his belly. "Okay." He repeats with conviction, squaring his shoulders, his feet, chin and chest held high. He wriggles his toes inside his shoes, counts them, one two three four five, one two three four five, one two three four…

The world goes white, so bright hot and brilliant, blinding, and the before the whiteness overtakes him completely he thinks _I'm Dean_.

* * *

His mouth tastes of blood, strong and overwhelming, a mouthful of salt and stale pennies. He has a gash on his forehead, a hot dribble of blood steadily working its way down the bridge of his nose, over his lips, past his chin until the dirt beneath him is spotted red, blades of grass drowning in his blood. Sam presses his fingers to the cut, applies pressure and waits, watching the first tendrils of smoke clear, orange flames licking up towards the sky slowly burn themselves out and extinguish. A good chunk of the world is irrevocably ruined, consumed in righteous and holy fire, cleansed with the impenetrable heat of God. Dean saved the world, he realizes, fresh blood on his tongue when he licks his lips. His brother did all of this, the good, the bad, the _great_. Dean gave up everything he is and Sam wants to hug him for it, is going to hug him for it, elation rocking him on the balls of his feet, laughter bubbling its way up this throat because two birds are flying above his head, weaving together in an intricate dance across the sky.

"Sam." The bottom of Castiel's trench coat is singed, the cloth burned black, torn and tattered but rustling in the breeze. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine Castiel, where's Dean?" Plumes of dark smoke are still twisting upwards and there is a body at his feet, a demon split apart by his knife, intestines sliced from his abdomen, lying limply in shards of shattered glass and cracked asphalt.

"He's around somewhere." Castiel speaks solemnly, worriedly, a frantic kind of panic to it, something soft and secret. "I'll look for him, you should go rest."

"Dude, I'm not resting until we find Dean. He better not be off trying to fuck a girl." He laughs, long and loud, relieving the tension in his chest, muscles in his throat vibrating, alive with reassured elation.

"Sam." Castiel sighs, a weary, angelic sigh, a broken noise, resigned and painful.

Three crows circle in the sky, black wings stretched as they dive down, landing a few dozen yards away, cawing in delight while they peck viciously at something, small pieces of flesh coming away in their beaks. Castiel vanishes, and the birds take to flight when he appears behind them, shoulders slumped forward in utter defeat.

_No_ Sam trembles, tears burning in his eyes at the sight of one booted foot, a snatch of leather jacket in the sun.

"Dean?" And he runs, sprinting, heart in his throat, beating so fast and so painful, accelerated heart rate sending blood spurting from his forehead. Dean is hurt, but Dean can't be hurt because an angel was in his body and Sam doesn't understand how the world works as clearly as he thought he did, not if Dean is dead, lying on his back among the corpses of demons.

Dean doesn't respond when Sam calls to him again, crouching down beside his body, touching the side of his face where strips of his skin have been ripped clean by hungry beaks. Dean isn't dead, his chest rises, a steady up and down, but he doesn't move, eyes wide and open, staring up ahead, into the sky even though it must be painful, skin missing from his cheek, tears shimmering on the surface of his eyes, quivering like rain on glass, catching and reflecting light from the sun. Dean is simply staring, limp dead weight in his hands, muscle and bone moving under his touch, marble for Sam to sculpt back into his brother.

"Is he hurt Castiel?" There are no bones protruding from Dean's skin, no scrapes or blood, nothing but the sporadic holes in Dean's clothes, a layer of dried blood on Dean's hands.

"No. This is what I expected." Castiel gently guides Dean to his feet, one arm around Dean's shoulders, his face crumpled like he's carrying the weight of the world, the unbearable heaviness of his own broken heart. "We should get Dean cleaned up."

They do and it's like handling a life sized doll of Dean. He strips Dean down to his bare skin, out of his filthy, mud and blood caked jeans, and Dean doesn't do a damn thing. He and Castiel wash the grime from his hair, beneath his fingernails, between his toes, everywhere, and Dean just lies there and takes it, watching the ceiling while they rinse soap bubbles off his skin.

"He'll be fine by tomorrow, right Castiel?" He half asks half pleads, tucking Dean beneath the covers of the motel room bed, watching Dean's eyes gaze out into the darkness until he drifts to sleep.

"I don't think so. Dean knew this would happen Sam. Michael is unbelievably powerful. His presence within Dean would have been overwhelming." Castiel's eyes drop down to his feet, the muscles in his throat visibly clenching, Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

"But he's coming back, he'll get over this?" Dean can't be gone; he can't be, because Dean is the only thing in Sam's life he isn't supposed to lose. Dean is _Dean_, he cheats death or he dies but he always, always comes back. Sam's tears feel like acid and they burn his cheeks on the way down, too hot and salty.

"I don't know." Castiel's mouth trembles and there's hope, hope that Dean can still be Dean again, that this is a temporary phase. Soon enough Dean will come out of it, with his biggest smirk, demanding pie and saying '_I went the way of McMurphey there for a minute huh Sammy? Guess that makes you Bromden you giant freak_'.

After six weeks, the little flame of hope in his chest goes out, flickers brightly once and dies. Dean isn't Dean and _Dean_ is never, never going to exist again. The Dean who kissed his cuts and made his lunch and gave him noogies in the morning when he didn't wake up is gone, instead there's only this, this fucking _thing_ that looks like Dean but is empty inside, a car without an engine, a plane without a pilot, a person without the vital and essential thing that makes them human. Before Dean was beautiful and sarcastic and arrogant and now he just takes up space, wastes air and food and sucks up Sam's love, absorbs it, a sponge in the shape of his beloved older brother.

Dean wets himself one morning because Sam doesn't remember to take him to the bathroom and he just lies there, jeans wet with piss and unfazed, not a recognizable emotion on his face. He stands Dean up, to take him to the bathroom, and he wants to punch him, beat the crap out of Dean until he snaps out of it, or bury his face in Dean's shoulder and sob, soak him with tears until he becomes real again, more than this zombie in Dean's skin.

"I'll take care of this Sam." Castiel unclenches his fists from Dean's t-shirt, moves them to his sides, sends him off to the bedroom with a steady push on his shoulders. Oh thank god for Cas, patient, devoted Cas who even now handles Dean with such affection, like nothing in Dean has changed, like Dean is still cracking jokes about angels being dicks with wings.

His cellphone has a new message when he grabs it off the night stand.

"Hey Sam, this is Jade, you saved me from those demons a couple months back. I'm going to be in town tomorrow, I thought we could catch up. Give me a call when you get this."

He looks into the living room, where Castiel is patiently feeding Dean a mashed up banana, and calls her back.

* * *

Castiel misses Dean, he longs for Dean with every fiber of his being, every muscle in his borrowed flesh. Each day he sits with Dean, patiently waiting for a day that will never come, for a miracle that will never occur. Dean has been a miracle for the world and miracles do not receive miracles themselves. But he _wants_ and he _needs_ and he _prays_, hands clasped together until they shake, kneeling beside Dean's bed at night.

"Your nephew turned three today, see, he's blowing out his candles." He sits with Dean and shows him the photos, holds Dean's wrist to guide his fingers to the picture, trace the shape of his nephew's face. "Sam said Dean is starting pre-school. He enjoys finger painting." Dean is unresponsive as always, the lingering shadow of a once great man. "I wish you would talk to me Dean." A part of Castiel wonders if Dean can talk, if the soul he raised from perdition is still bound to earth.

The day Dean turns thirty-six he enters Dean's dreams for the first time in years. Dean's subconscious is disheartening, a void chasm of white, blank walls and ceilings, a long, clean white floor. Dean is sitting naked in the middle of his mind, hands in his lap, fingers occasionally twitching. There are no pristine waters and warm sunlight, no fishing poles or clear blue skies. Dean dreams in emptiness and the extent of Dean's personal desolation makes his heart hurt.

"Dean?" Dean looks up at him, truly _moves_, twists his head around and watches him, a faint gleam of recognition in his eyes.

Dean makes a low, guttural sound, the noise of an animal, slurry and weak.

"S…sss…sammy?" Dean says slowly, like a child learning how to speak.

"No." He cradles the right side of Dean's face in his hand, brushes his thumb across the warmth of it.

"Cas?"

"Yes Dean, I'm your Cas." Dean nuzzles into him, pushes his face into the curve of his neck, clinging to him, curling his hands into his trench coat. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you." Dean can't grasp the meanings of his sentences. If Dean's physical being is a shadow of the man Dean was, then Dean's soul is merely a fragment, a single, stray shard of the most altruistic man in the world.

"Sammy?" Dean repeats, lips warm on his clavicle.

"No." Dean breathes against him, nestles in close and sleeps.

* * *

"Why are you here?" Zachariah appears in the bathroom while he is giving Dean his morning bath, the sleeves of his coat and shirt rolled up past his elbows, soap suds foaming on his hands.

"I came for a visit. How are you doing Dean?" Dean doesn't respond, Castiel doesn't expect him to, and Zachariah laughs and laughs. "I like this new you Dean. No more of your smartass quips." He wants to kill Zachariah, he wants to make him hurt, feel every raw and searing blaze of pain that he does, the complete and total sense of _loss_, the loss of something precious to him. Dean is precious to him, cherished to him like Zachariah cherishes his own life. "I don't know why you bother to take care of him now Castiel. The sooner you let him die the sooner his soul can be free, to go wherever it should."

His blade slides effortlessly into Zachariah's neck. Zachariah gurgles, a burst of blood spurting from the hole in his throat, spraying red across the wall. Zachariah gives one last wet choking sound, fingers scrabbling at the blood slick tile, teleporting away with his last bit of strength. He leaves a puddle of crimson on the floor, a deep sense of satisfaction in Castiel's chest.

"I showed that bitch." He tells Dean, smiling, using the wash cloth to wipe blood from Dean's face, emptying the tub of pink tinged water. "Didn't I Dean?"

For an instant, he swears the corners of Dean's mouth twitch upwards.


End file.
